The Shaman's Apprentice

by B. Muze

  Less than a week after the Summer Festival, while the shaman’s servant was still struggling to “listen deeply,” she heard the sound of horses’ hooves pounding the ground quickly, growing louder as they approached. Her master heard them too and raised the cry. The Gicoks were attacking.

  Men ran in from the fields and the grazing hills. Women and children grabbed what they could of their livestock and their treasures and rushed to the caves. The men armed, older men holding back to defend the village proper and the access to the caves while the younger men rushed forward to attack as the Gicoks forded the western river. Yaku Shaman armed and ran with the younger men. He did not think of his apprentice, but assumed she would follow the other children.

  In her confusion, she ran to her mother’s home first, to the old goytew house where her mother had always instructed them to meet in case of danger. It was, of course, deserted. Only then did she go to the caves, but her little legs could not climb very fast, and the entrances were sealed by the time she arrived. One by one she pounded on the hidden doors. None opened. Her people hid deep, away from them, in fortified passages dug long ago that connected and went farther than anyone but the miners had ever explored. It was unlikely that they heard her.

  She knew she should hide nearby, but the sounds of the battle, now engaged, drew her curiosity. She ran back to the eastern hill and hid in the thick branches of her tree. From there she could see the village and all the lands beyond.

  The Gicoks had not yet crossed the river whose floating bridges had been retracted. They were terrifying, on huge, black horses bred for battle with long legs, broad shoulders and high heads. It was said that these animals were the spirits of their fallen warriors, and the little girl was thankful when she saw one fall wounded. It bled. That meant it wasn’t a spirit. The horses were shielded with thick woven hides over their backs and around their chests, tied to them under their bellies. The mats were bright and dazzling, painted with visions of demons and hung with shiny tassels that tried to draw the eye away from the rider.

  If the horses were impressive, the men were hardly less so. They were a tall race and strong, trained from birth for battle, for the Gicoks were nomads who fed their people with stolen food and goods that could be traded. Their white or golden hair was cut too short for an enemy to grab and their pale eyes, pink, amber or light blue, were hard to watch. They darted around frenziedly, never focusing on anything but seeing everything and hiding their thoughts. They went into battle covered with glistening oils and magic paint to protect their limbs, throats, and heads. Their shields were vests of shaped and hardened reeds and limber leather that covered their backs and chests and moved with them as they moved. They were painted with the visages of demons, like their horses, and with magic symbols of strength and courage that made them look terrifyingly greater than anything human.

  They always came from the west when they attacked, for that was the easiest and quickest passage through the surrounding mountains. They always rode swiftly but the valley setting for the village, coursed with rivers and lakes, allowed it adequate warning. If the Gicoks had ever once snuck in during the night, like a cat stalking its prey, they would probably have found the village unprepared and defenseless, but a Gicok was a proud and honorable warrior. They fought with warriors who could fight back, not with farmers in their beds.

  Although their village was a peaceful one, Yaku Shaman’s people were well prepared for defense. Their young men were strong and trained to run swiftly and fight deadly well by the time they had reached adulthood. Weapons were always near, and even everyday tools were made strong and sharp for combat, just in case. They were not nearly the riders that the Gicoks were. Their horses were strong but slow and too small to ride far. They were more useful for the plow than the battle, but the men knew every step of their valley, every eddy in the rivers, streams, and lakes, and they knew the lives of their families and their people depended on them. They fought with courage and were at least an equal match for their enemy.

  The battle began at the river. Yaku Shaman’s people had projectile weapons which could send sharp bone and metal pieces and charmed stones to pierce their enemies’ hides and shatter their bones. The Gicoks had some arrows, but they were hand to hand fighters. The arrows were merely to get them to their enemy where the real fighting would occur. Even though the summer’s heat had lowered the rivers, it was still a difficult cross for one who did not know the way. The floating bridges had been retracted, and many Gicoks fell before they forded it. The wounded retreated to the hills, where, if they could heal, they would meet their returning warriors, if they could not, they would kill themselves. They never allowed themselves to be taken prisoner.

  Those who did not fall were met on the other side by valiant warriors led by a giant shaman, the size of a bear, who seemed to wear an armor of pure light. Spirits surrounded him, and no weapon could come close enough to touch him, yet his ax fell with the force of twenty, bringing down man, and sometimes horse as well, with one blow. The Gicoks were strong, however, and the men of the valley were forced back toward their village. There all looked still, but in trees and on roofs and hidden places along the way were silent men, waiting. When the shaman called retreat and fled, the Gicoks chased them into an ambush, which was led by Sirfen Elder’s best pupil. The shaman’s warriors split and circled back while blades and stones flew at the enemies with deadly aim. Good men on both sides fell.

  The Gicoks pushed themselves in far enough to loot while their stronger warriors still fought. They did not bother with farmer’s small, sturdy horses, but tried for bofimers and goytews and anything of value that could run beside them or be easily carried on their horses’ backs. The hide doors and windows of houses were ripped open and destroyed. They filled the pouches in their horses’ battle mats with what they could snatch, then retreated. The men did not pursue past the river. It was useless. The Gicoks left with what they had grabbed. It was not worth enough to risk their lives further. Hopefully, the Gicoks’ losses would be enough to keep them away for at least another year, but no one doubted that they would be back.

  The wounded were gathered in the center of town with a tent hastily thrown up around them. The dead, both theirs and the Gicoks’, were taken to the northern plain. Women and children were given the all-clear signal and quickly emerged to do their share of tending the wounded, preparing the dead and repairing the village.

  Although many men were hurt, less than twenty had been killed. They were mostly the younger men, the braver men who had fought beside the shaman. Two of the boys who had only just reached adulthood were killed. Most were only slightly older. The man that gossip said Misa was going to marry next spring was among the dead. Of the husbands and fathers, only four were dead, and they would be deeply mourned. Carken, the farmer bordering Takan’s lands, who was childless and whose wife had died of illness several years ago, was now free to follow her. Two of the elders who, like Yaku Shaman, still thought it necessary to fight as younger men, had also been killed.

  The shaman’s servant was running back toward the village when she noticed, from her view on the eastern hill, that many men were heading toward the northern plain. Her curiosity pulled her that way to investigate.

  She stopped her father who was among the northbound men.

  “Why are you going this way?” she asked.

  He stared down at her, confused, and could not answer. She gently turned him around and sent him back toward the village. He walked like a man in his sleep.

  “Go home, Father,” she called after him, but she could not tell if he heard.

  One by one she stopped the walking men. She tried to turn them around and send them back to the village, but many were too confused and stood and stared at her instead. She wished her master were here to explain why they were walking like this, but she knew he was busy and she was afraid if she went to get him, the sleepwalkers would wander away and get lost.

  “Massern Leader,” she cried, “wa
ke up! These men are getting lost. You must lead them back.”

  He stopped walking north but did not wake up. He stood and stared at her, as though waiting for her to do something. She didn’t know what to do.

  She reached for Carken, but he pulled away. His eyes were not like the others. He was alert and awake.

  “Can you tell me what is happening to them?” she begged, pointing toward the men.

  “All I know is I am dead,” he said with a smile, “and my wife is waiting with our children and my family for me to be free.” He nodded toward the men around her. “Good luck with them.”

  “Good luck to you,” she wished him.

  While they were talking, Pinden, Katira’s husband, wandered by. She ran to catch him. He smiled at her dazedly, as though he almost recognized her.

  “Where are you going Pinden?” she asked.

  He waved his hand vaguely toward the north and shrugged.

  “But Katira is waiting for you in the village. She will be very angry if you leave her, with your baby on its way.”

  She took his hand. The others, who had followed her as she ran to him, followed her still as she led him back to the village.

  She stopped several more men, including her father, who had somehow turned around again, and led them straight to the shaman, who was working in the wounded men’s tent.

  “Master,” she called, as she entered the tent. He did not look up from the surgery he was performing.

  “Soak this well,” he ordered, handing a small bronze-edged knife to a woman near him, “and bring it back to me as clean as possible.”

  “More cloth,” he demanded of another.

  “Come here and watch,” he called to his servant.

  She came to his side. The men around her followed.

  Yaku Shaman raised his head, looked around, and fixed his eyes on her. His face looked angry, but she was beginning to realize that it always did, especially when he was confused or thoughtful.

  “Who is here?” he demanded of her.

  “Pinden, Massern Leader, Takan, Focuren…” she named them all, one by one. “They were wandering toward the north. They looked confused. I didn’t know what to do so I brought them to you.”

  His frown deepened. He nodded toward the man on whom he was operating. It was Massern Leader. He lay, unconscious, a stitched-up gash on the side of his head and one in his belly, which the shaman was struggling to close.

  The little girl looked between the body on the raised bed and the man standing beside her. The man beside her smiled slightly in her general direction but seemed for the most part unaware.

  “Will he live?” she asked.

  “His body is not too bad. We work to make it a place where the spirit can stay before the spirit goes too far to find its way back. It is good that you brought them here.”

  The child caught her breath in surprise. Such praise from her master was very rare.

  He tried to explain to her what he was doing. It was much about blood and veins and hearts and muscles, far too much for her to understand. He would often stop his explanations suddenly, as his full concentration was demanded for the work, and not bother to resume where he had left off. The little girl didn’t even notice. She watched his hands, so uncommonly large they should have been ungainly, but they handled his tools, slim knives, and little needles, with a dexterity that would be the envy of the finest stitcher or craftsman. She had watched him kill today with one mighty blow. Now she saw how many tiny touches it took to heal.

  He was not the only healer. Two others, both women, tended the wounded with similar skill. Yaku Shaman himself, his servant found out later, had been taught the healing craft by an old woman of this village whose skill, his master had judged, had been beyond his own.

  Slowly the crowd around the little girl thinned as the men slipped back into the beds where their sleeping bodies lay. Several wandered north again, but this time they knew where they were going. Many of the men woke up in pain, with their friends and wives and families near to tend to their needs and comfort them. Those who were judged well enough were taken home. Several had to stay. The shaman and the other healers tended them throughout the night.

  Yaku gulped a light konis to keep himself awake, but it bent the mind to hallucinations which he found distracting. He caught himself staring stupidly at tiny spirits who flitted here and there, often dancing around him or his apprentice like moths around a fire. These were harmless, useless little ones, whom there was no reason to watch, but he was tired and the day had drained so much of his energy that he had little left with which to guide his mind.

  The next day was difficult. There were the dead to deal with. Yaku had let them wait only because the living had priority, but they could not wait too long to be freed, or their spirits would grow restless and angry and cause troubles for the living. All night he had struggled to keep awake. As soon as the living were tended, he saw to the dead before he dared to try to sleep. They would not have let him succeed anyway. His strength was not what he would have wished. He leaned heavily upon his servant, his weight almost more than she could bear, but he could not have made it to the northern plain without her. No one dared to offer help, for they all knew his pride. The people, both the living and the dead, waited while he called to the families and sang the Soul’s Ease. His servant sang with him, her clear, young voice steadying his and continuing strongly where his failed. Had he been slightly more alert, he might have felt ashamed at his weakness, his dependence on a baby, but all his mind and energy were pushing him to finish his duty so he could finally rest. When the last chant was sung, the last spirit freed, he sank to the ground where he had stood, found a pillow in his servant’s lap, and slept under the sun as the people around him solemnly buried the bodies with their treasures and with herbs and seeds to help them start new life again in the spirit’s world.

  Yaku Shaman awoke at sunset, stiff and sore and feeling older than he ever yet had. The little girl offered him her strength, but he refused. He was rested now. He would go home unaided.

  As he walked beside his servant through the town people came to their doors and windows, put down their work and watched. They bowed to him silently, their deepest honor to the great warrior, the worthy healer, and their beloved shaman.

  Chapter 7

  Attack of the Wolf Spirit

  Takan’s bones were still mending when Polisa had her baby. It was the boy they had been praying for. It was a hard birth, much harder than any of the others, but Polisa was strong and endured it well. When the time came to move to the southern country, she and her husband, their five remaining daughters, and their baby boy were all ready.

  Katira had more difficulty. She was heavy with child, and Pinden had been wounded badly, his leg amputated, and he still could not walk alone with his crutches.

  The village used a wagon for those who were weak. This year they used three. Wagons were slow and clumsy, dangerous through the mountains, and difficult to hide. They drew attention and might attract the Gicoks, but the alternative was leaving the weak behind in a poorly protected village with only some of the livestock and the shepherds, or everyone staying and possibly starving. The village chose to risk the journey.

  When Yaku performed the fall rituals, he sang a special song for protection on their journey and luck in the search of game. In worlds ago, they had been nomads, he reminded his people, and had never stopped wandering in pursuit of their food. Their lives were easier now, for which they should give thanks. But they should also thank the spirits for this occasional reminder of how their ancestors had lived. A tree can grow tall, but its roots should be as deep as its branches are high if it is to live well.

  Each home in the village was guarded by a statue or a painting representing the spirit guardian of the house. The village had several statues wrought in silver representing the spirits of the village. All who left on the journey bound their wrist with a slim chain that held the metal charms in the form of faces of their vi
llage spirits and their individual home spirit. They would not take these off again until they had returned to their village, and any who died on the way would be buried with their homecoming bracelet still on, so their spirit could find the way home. Yaku Shaman, himself, made the bracelet for his servant. It was not the one she was used to. It had the village spirits but not her mother’s house spirit or even Yaku’s house spirit, but one that she had not seen before. It had a double face, half-man, half-woman with no animal nature depicted.

  “It is the Mother/Father” Yaku Shaman explained. “The creator of all the worlds and all the other spirits and gods. That is where the shaman goes home. That is the spirit’s home.”

  “This is the one who planted the world’s tree?” she asked.

  He nodded. The Mother/Father was the creator and destroyer of all the worlds that had ever been, including the one to be.

  The people of the village left through the southern woods, a caravan of families dressed in costumes of thick woven wool and pelts for warmth and camouflage. They traveled with leather tents, warm blankets, dried food, and water sacks tied to their backs and to the backs of their horses. Many walked with long staves or several slim, but strong poles lashed tightly together, blunt at one end and blade tipped at the other. Such poles supported the walker in the day, the tent in the night, and could be used for defense or hunting if necessary. All the men were well-armed, and even women and youths carried blades in straps over their shoulders or around their hips and whistles around their necks to call a variety of well-rehearsed alarms. Some families chose to lead their bofimers for milk and meat if necessary. Many left their stock behind in a hidden valley, under the watchful eyes of two brave, young men and the spirits. It was hoped neither the Gicoks nor the wild predators would find them. It was hoped the winter would be mild enough that they would not freeze or starve.